


Trustworthy

by looneymoony



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, ahhhh im a piece of shit, in which i project more of my Brain Problems onto characters that don't deserve it, they say to write what you know. i know nothing about college but i knOW A THING OR TWO ABOUT GAY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 08:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneymoony/pseuds/looneymoony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moonstruck tellurian is lost in the endless empyreal sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trustworthy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally Written: December 22, 2015  
> Tumblr Source: http://mcguckt.tumblr.com/post/135690464241/trustworthy  
> It's been over a month since I posted my last fic and I hate myself so much because there's no way this can be worth the wait.  
> EDIT: December 22, 2015 - AHHHH THIS WAS THE FIRST DRAFT I'D MADE EDITS I DIDN'T REALIZE GODDAMN THIS I HATE LIFE OKAY THE REAL VERSION IS UP NOW FUFKCUFSDJS (don't worry they aren't /that/ different i just hate everything)  
> 

Fiddleford had never been very eloquent.

It had always seemed that his words were stumbling out of his mouth rather than forming actual sentences. It was as if his tongue had an antipathy for enunciation. Even his too-big name sounded more like a stutter whenever he stuck out his too-big hand to introduce himself with a too-big smile. He couldn't quite place exactly when he had realized that people could take him more seriously in writing than in person, but it was something that he'd known for quite a bit of time and so had become accustomed to it. He didn't have to worry about his heavy accent or peculiar whimper interrupting the sentiment of his speech if he never had to open his mouth. He couldn't lose his thoughts in the infinity of someone's eyes if he never had to speak to them directly. Such were basic principles of life, simple facts that he had learned to accept, like the necessity of breathing, the usefulness of a large vocabulary, and his inevitable failure to articulate himself.

It was this thought that continued to echo in Fiddleford's mind as he sat perched on the foot of his bed, staring at his feet (which occasionally would kick back and forth, but at that moment were as motionless as the rest of his body). His left hand hid in the pocket of his jeans, clenching around a sizable ball of paper. Why was this any different?

He could think of a hundred other things he'd rather be doing. His banjo, for example, was taunting him from the corner of the room, urging him to surrender to his native stereotype; his tinker-box full of bits and pieces of wiring and old motherboards he'd picked up was always available - although it tended to remind him too much of his schoolwork and, subsequently, his enrollment in the least desired school of the country, and, of course, there was the ever-growing tower of Books (which were different from regular books because _he'd_ recommended them) to read. If all else failed, he could throw on his coat and walk until he couldn't ignore the winter moths bombarding his face anymore. That last option resonated with him, and he fondled the paper in his pocket. How fantastic a suggestion it was to someone as peripatetic as he - to simply get up, walk away, and perhaps never return. Yes, forget the winter moths. He would walk to the bank, withdraw some cash, and take the train to the airport, where he could fly off to some distant and isolated country where no one had ever even heard of mechanics or rejection or a pine tree.

He sighed - sighing seemed to be another one of his pastimes lately - and took his hand out of his pocket. The piece of paper crumpled in his palm was soft and stained bluish-gray from the graphite smudging itself and being crammed in jean pockets for - how long had it been? A month? Two months? He tried to calculate the amount of time in his head before realizing that it wouldn't matter. He'd been able to define which chemicals that  _he_ released even before he'd started taking Notes (which were different from regular notes because they had to do with _him_ ).

He found himself putting one foot in front of the other, and soon he was walking out of his dorm. He braced himself for the cold as he stepped outside, but discovered he'd subconsciously put on a coat, and so kept moving.

Perhaps in some other time, he described to himself the beauty of the near-winter landscape - the point in which the trees were mostly barren but no snow had fallen yet and so everything was brown and gray - but as it was, he was in a very big hurry to be nowhere at all and thus had neither the time nor the patience to be the poet. He plodded onwards, reveling in the split seconds of joy when the leaves _crunched_ underfoot before he inevitably remembered why he was walking and his hardships engulfed him once more. Perhaps in some other time, he invented a machine which allowed him to forget all of his responsibilities and worries and woes so that he could be blissful for eternity, but as it was, eternity was a very long time, and he felt cold in a way that was not brought about by standard winter winds.

Above him loomed the library, stony and forbidding, which, he noted, was exactly the opposite of what a library should be. Libraries were meant to be safe havens of warmth and impartial hospitality, yet this towering fortress was anything but inviting. He frowned, because he didn't want to go inside. He wanted to go somewhere else, but before he could ask just where 'somewhere else' was, the massive double doors heaved shut behind him and he was moving further into the labyrinth of books.

He shivered and pulled the coat tighter around him. It was almost as cold inside as it was out. This was truthfully the worst library he had ever attended, and he had seen some bizarre libraries. He considered writing a list of the five worst libraries he had ever seen, and putting this library at the very top. The second worst would be the one in Memphis that was constructed entirely out of cobblestones and rush -

"Can I help you, sir?" he spun around to see a young woman glaring at him from over a pair of half-moon spectacles. She had the expression of someone who had been working two weeks without a break when she'd been promised that more help would be hired.

It occurred to Fiddleford that he had been loitering in the center of the room for an unusual length of time, and he felt his face flush as he cleared his throat. "Oh, uh, no, pardon me, ma'am. I'm all set for now, thanks." He shoved his hands in the pockets of the coat and turned away, staring at his feet and feeling the woman's eyes boring into the back of his head.

His mind was empty but busy when he finally looked up to see where he had been taken. It was the biography section, which was perfect because no one really cared about the musty old scientists and inventors enough to read about their lives, meaning he could be alone. He finally collapsed onto the ground, taking deep, heavy breaths. He hadn't realized just how tense he'd been and didn't want to take the time to think about why. Instinctively, he reached his hand into his pocket - the Notes were still there. He pulled his knees closer to him and spread the paper out over his thighs, taking care not to smudge away any more of the markings. He patted the coat pockets - surely there was a pen in there somewhere - but there was nothing, and so he settled to study instead.

The thing about taking Notes was that they had to come from the heart. He couldn't write full sentences because he never thought in full sentences - he only ever thought in sentimental cadences or a snapshot of a memory or a warm feeling bubbling underneath. His Notes, as a result, tended to consist of sketches and serendipity and scrawled-out song lyrics. A part of him despised how cheesy he was, but he reasoned that as long as he was being honest with himself, there was no harm done. _Besides_ , he thought with a bit of a pang in his chest, _no one's ever gonna see them, anyway._

Although he didn't remember how long ago it was, he remembered tearing out the page from his notebook once he realized what he'd been writing on it. Since then, he'd sort of regarded it as a collage of shame - when he felt himself becoming overwhelmed with the urge to write, he'd pull out that piece of paper and write on there, because it would never see the light of day anyways, so why not just add even more horrible things to it?

What were they Notes on? Fiddleford couldn't really describe it. He wasn't very good at descriptions in general and tended to leave out too many important details; but then, part of the format of his Notes was designed to contain only the bare essentials and raw emotion. _Really though,_ he mused, _if I were to summarize them, they would be just that: feelings._ His eyes meandered over the page and a smile snuck into the corners of his mouth. It all was just an accumulation of partial memories that he associated with _him_. It didn't matter what medium it was in, so long as it reminded him of Stanford.

He winced. He shouldn't have thought that. The moment he put a name to his passion, it was all over. Sure enough, now _his_ face was flooding through his mind, and he hunched over himself as he remembered everything all at once - _"Howdy, I'm Fiddleford McGucket" - "Hey now, don't you worry, alright" - "Oh, come on, buck up a little" - "I can't believe you roped me into this" -_

"Uh... thanks for all your help."

He glances up from the calculations to see him grinning sheepishly from across the table. He offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile in return. "He-ey, that's what friends are for, right?"

Stanford's grin twists a bit, as though he isn't entirely certain what a friendship contract entails. "Yeah, but still. You really saved my skin. I guess these big equations just tend to... I don't know, intimidate me?"

Fiddleford nods. He knows all too well how terrifying incomprehensible concepts can be - it's part of the reason why he'd failed a few classes and stayed longer at college than he would've liked to. However, the two of them working together, solving problems and giving each other a boost when they needed it, had really seemed to improve his grades. Suddenly, it appeared as though he was not only going to pass the semester, but do _well_ , which means more to him than he could ever really admit. All of this flashes through his mind in an instant, as is the norm for him, and he continues the conversation without pause. "It can get pretty scary when you don't know what's going on. Everything is flying over your head, and it's going too fast for you to grab it, and even if you do you've only caught one thing and the rest are all still soaring by..."

He coughs and glares at his feet when he sees that Stanford giving him an odd look from behind his textbook. "Sorry, not a very good metaphor. My point is, I've been where you are, and I hated it. I don't think it's an experience anyone should have, least of all you. 'Course I'm gonna stick my neck out for ya, any way I can."

Ford smiles and his face relaxes. "You're really brilliant, you know that?"

And then his muscles tense, and the hairs rise on his arm, and his brain evacuates his skull because he feels _his_ hand stretch out over his own and squeeze it gently, and there are firecrackers going off where his heart should be even though they'd held hands before but it didn't matter because he _still revels in every moment that they spend together and every single second of every day is spent thinking about him and his six fingers are ridiculously comforting and he's rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand now and he dares to gaze up and his eyes are such a warm and welcoming brown and his hair looks so fluffy and what's that emotion spreading across his face is it could it be -_

And just like that, he was back in the library, crumpling up his Notes and stuffing them back into the pocket of his jeans. He felt sick. He wanted his body to void and fold in on itself until he ceased to exist. The only flaw in his plan was, if he were to trust his impulse and reduce himself to a black hole, he wouldn't be able to - he couldn’t even think it. It was too cliché.

He groaned and fell to his back, rubbing his eyes (and his mind) clear of his episode, but of course his instinct when in a downward swing would be to go find Sta - _him_ , and that would be the opposite of a solution in his situation. He stared at the ceiling and counted the tiles, trying to let his mind wander, but being weighed down by the heavy thought of _if only I had someone I could trust._

"Oh, but you do, Fiddleford," he murmured to the tiles above him. "You do and he's the problem." he turned over onto his side and closed his eyes with a sigh.

But then it hit him.

His eyes opened. _Of course_ , he thought, sitting up. _Someone I can trust._

Stanford.

He could trust Stanford.

He _had_ always trusted Stanford, how had he been so _stupid_ and he wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh and he just couldn't stop himself from beaming because the solution was so _obvious_ , he'd just been too embarrassed to think about it. Because it was Stanford who had talked to him when no one else would. It was Stanford who had supported him when he was alone, had listened and sympathized even when he didn't make sense, had offered him a shoulder to cry on, had been there for him, through thick and thin and light and dark and good and bad.

It was always Stanford.

His mind was empty, and he knew well enough to keep it that way, for if he thought about it too much he'd surely talk himself out of it, but as he stumbled to his feet, the word _trust_ was being shouted in his head over and over and over. He needed to write it down - not in his Notes, no, he needed it to be permanent - so he whisked around and faced the steel shelves. His heart was pounding with determination and he reached into his coat to pull out his pocket knife -

A pause.

The knife wasn't there.

Holding his breath, he turned his head down the tiniest amount, and instantly his heart plummeted into the ground.

He was wearing Stanford's trench coat.

The world was swimming before him, and he felt giddy, in a way that was not the good or excited kind that shivered up into his heart when Ford smiled at him. His heart was racing, for sure, but it was with a sense of _ohshitohshitohshit_ rather than irrepressible fondness. Suddenly he was pressing his palms against the wall and breathing hard. The world was dimming around the corners of his eyes and his ears were ringing and his head was pounding and everything was starting to go dark...

 _No,_ he thought. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed, waiting for the sensation to pass. _This coat won't get back to Ford until you do. C'mon, Fiddleford..._ he opened his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, panting. _You can do it. You're really brilliant._

One foot forward. Just like before. _There you go._

The other foot forward. He shoved his fists in the coat pockets.

_really brilliant_

He was sprinting out of the library, making a beeline for their dorm. God, what time was it? When he'd left, Stanford was in class, but he had probably the worst sense of time in human history and wouldn't trust himself to boil a pot of water safely, so for all he knew...

Already he was back in front of his room, fumbling around with the doorknob. Of course it was locked, but he had no idea if Ford kept a key in his coat, and if he did, then how would he get in, and what if _he was angry, he wouldn't be able to handle Ford being angry at him he --_

The lock clicked open and Fiddleford’s bodily functions all ceased because Ford was standing in the doorway, looking sincere and at first happy to see his roommate but then slightly concerned as he saw him slouching over and brow furrowed and sweaty and wearing his coat for some reason. "Hey, buddy," he said, opening the door wider. "Come on in."

Fiddleford was jittering and wringing his hands as he stepped cautiously into the apartment and gently removed the coat, holding it out for Ford. He took it with a small grin and met his eyes for a moment, trying to study his emotions. Fiddleford turned away and sat himself down on their old sagging sofa. "Good to see that _you_ had my coat. I was getting worried, I thought I'd left it somewhere. Shoulda known it was just with you."

His chest knotted up. "Y'aren't mad, then?"

Ford chuckled quietly and sat down next to him, and Fiddleford looked everywhere but at the red in his ears and cheeks. "Of course I'm not mad. What's there to be mad about? You're a dependable individual. My coat'd obviously be safe with you."

Fiddleford hung his head in his hands and sighed with relief, but it also sounded like a whimper. Ford gave him a little pat on his back and he shivered. He was absolutely and completely distressed, but it was all okay, Stanford said so, he believed Stanford... _he trusted Stanford._

He glanced up and Ford looked at him for a split second before Fiddleford flung himself upon him, grabbing his head and slamming his lips onto Ford's.

He felt like he was soaring, and later on he'd be able to describe the sensation as drinking the stars in the sky and letting them fill your lips and your head and your lungs and swirl all around in euphoria. He'd remember how his heart swelled with clouds and adoration and he pulled Ford in tighter and Ford seemed confused at first but did not demur and they were _there together._ He could write pages of Notes about how the downy hair behind his ears tickled his fingers even as he thought about it long after it had ended, and his glasses were fogging up and smashing against his and his nose was squeezed next to his and he could barely breathe and yet he didn't care at all because _Ford was there_ and that was the only thing that mattered.

Unfortunately, at the moment all he could think was "Wow, lips sure are softer than I thought they'd be."

And just like that, it was over, and the two of them pulled apart, breathing heavy, and neither one said a word but they didn't _really_ pull apart, their arms were still slung over one another in a way that they didn't remember arranging them and their foreheads were pressed together and then Fiddleford looked up. He looked up and shortly afterwards Stanford did, too. Then Stanford smiled so earnestly that Fiddleford's heart melted all over again and he wrapped him up in the biggest hug he could muster and Stanford started laughing but Fiddleford didn't feel self-conscious, he was laughing too and they just stayed together on that moldy old couch and thought about how lucky they were to have someone as trustworthy as the other.


End file.
